


les ballons rose, s’il vous plaît

by FlashFlashFlash



Series: plus d’enfants, plus de joie [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff I guess, M/M, Mood Swings, Morning Sickness, Peterick, Unplanned Pregnancy, google it, happiness, if you don’t know what a harmony test is, pregnancy symptoms, talk of a previous traumatic birth experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: “Marie, I’m so pregnant, I don’t know how it’s taken me so long!” Patrick lets out a shaky laugh. “I mean, seriously, I’m gaining weight, I’m crying all the time, I’m getting sick like clockwork every fucking evening, and - did you know I peed three times in two hours at Andy’s last week?”





	les ballons rose, s’il vous plaît

**Author's Note:**

> It’s here! Two updates in a month! Woot! 
> 
> I write this whole thing and then I was about to upload it but I closed my browser accidentally and oh my goodness I was so frustrated! I lost everything and had to rewrite, so this is a week later than I had hoped, but I’m pretty happy with it overall. I’ll come back and proofread at some point I promise.
> 
> A x

On Monday, three weeks after his and Pete’s wedding anniversary, Patrick pees three times in the two hours he spends at Andy’s house. He’s drinking a lot of water, because he’s feeling a little dizzy, too, and he makes a mental note to have Pete rub his aching back later. He’s just getting old. Yeah, that’s it.

“Maybe you should go home, dude. You don’t look so good,” Andy says in between mouthfuls of tofu stir fry, watching Patrick take another sip of water. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m just really tired,” Patrick laughs, placing his glass back on the coaster. “Pete’s insomnia’s been acting up a little, and you know I hate leaving him awake on his own.”  
It’s a big fat lie. Patrick has been sleeping just fine, almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, and Pete’s insomnia hasn’t been bad enough to affect anyone else’s sleep schedule since Joey started sleeping through the night without crying. Sometimes, if they have spare time before it’s too late, they have sex, and, honestly, Patrick’s loving it. He wakes up in the morning feeling unreasonably sore in his back, but it’s so worth it.

“You just look like you’re a bit of a funny colour, that’s all.” Andy shrugs. Admittedly, Patrick has been feeling nauseous after dinner in the evening over the last few days, but it goes away pretty quickly, in time for Pete to turn the lights off and the charm on. Yes, he’s feeling dizzy right now, but that’s nothing, he’s so certain. “I’m fine,” Patrick whines childishly.

“Tell me you’re fine all you want, but you look sick to me.”

“Stop pestering me!” Patrick jokes half-heartedly. “Seriously, dude, don’t worry.”

“Nah, I’m driving you home, okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.” Andy sets his fork down, swallowing another piece of tofu. He stands up. “You can come pick up your car tomorrow, when you look less like you’re gonna die on me. Come on, get your shoes on, Wentz.”

“Hey,” Patrick groans in response. He’s secretly glad to be going home, and not having to drive, because all he wants is a nap and a back rub. “It’s still Stump. Don’t associate me with that madman.” He says, standing up.

“That’s not what your passport and marriage certificate say... Wentz.” Andy grins and cocks his head towards the door. “I’ll help you to the car, I don’t trust you walking all that way on your own.”

“Andy, I said I’m fine!” Patrick takes a firm hold of Andy’s arm, though, leaning on him a little as he slides his feet back into his chucks.

“Which is why you’re letting me take you home, and also why you’ve got my arm in a death grip.”

Patrick has to admit that Andy has a point.

—

The second clue is the crying.

Patrick cries at anything, and he’s not usually so emotional. He even cried when Louie call him one Tuesday to say she was staying at school late because the teachers needed a helping hand with a set for the school play. Pete had watched in total confusion as Patrick set down the iron and dried his eyes on a red T-shirt, mumbling about missing his daughter and being proud of her for helping out.

“Baby?” Pete asked, his eyebrows skewed in disbelief. “What’s wrong?” Patrick only sobbed louder. “Hey, you want a hug?” A vigorous nod beckoned Pete in for a snuggle. With Pete’s arms around his waist, and his lips pressed to his forehead, Patrick felt less guilty about making the shoulder of Pete’s shirt wet, and less ashamed to be crying over his daughter’s freedom. After a little while, Pete asked, “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I think-“ Patrick hiccuped. “I think I’m just tired.”

“Early night tonight, then. No fooling around, huh?”

Patrick shook his head and Pete just smiled, ducking his head to kiss him on the end of his nose and then pressing their foreheads together. He could see the wet sheen of tears still on Patrick’s cheeks, and he patted at them carefully with the red T-shirt. They stood, and Pete held his husband close into his chest. He waited for the sniffling to slow and stop, leaving them in almost complete silence, bar the beating of their heart and rhythm of their breathing.

“Feel a little better, now?”

“Yeah, thanks, I...” Patrick pulled away and kissed Pete softly. “I don’t know what happened, I just felt so sad.”

Pete chuckled. “I’ve been there, done that.”

Patrick went back to resting his head on Pete’s chest, swaying them slightly from side to side at a slow pace. “You’re, like, the best husband ever.”

“Yeah, babe. I know.”

It earned him a good slap and an eye roll, but Pete was glad he’d said it anyway.

—

Morning sickness is a bitch, but it’s even more of a bitch when you’re completely oblivious.

At first, it comes whenever and wherever it wants to, for however long it wants to. Patrick is mortified when he goes to visit his mom and throws up in the kitchen sink, rather unfortunately all over her freshly peeled and washed potatoes, which are supposed to be sitting in a colander, draining nicely.

“Mom!” Patrick is forced to call out, paralysed with the fear that if he moved he might vomit on her other chopped vegetables.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Trisha comes back into the room from where she had been fetching herbs from her little conservatory in the back. “Is something wrong with the potatoes, dear?” She asks jokily, noticing her son leaning over the sink.

“Mom, I’m sorry, I just-“ Patrick gags. Trisha sets her herbs down on the counter and rushes over, placing a hand on her son’s upper back and peering at him in a concerned, motherly fashion.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay, they’re just potatoes.” Patrick gags again, this time a little more violently, and Trisha winces.

“Mom,” Patrick whimpers, tears brimming in his eyes that he desperately doesn’t want to fall. He gets sick again a few moments later, and Trisha has to look away, but she doesn’t stop rubbing his back, making him feel safe. “Oh my god,” Patrick says quietly. “I’m so sorry, Mom, I didn’t think I was gonna throw up, I just thought it was a stomach ache or something.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll go get rid of these and you just go sit down somewhere. I think you should go to the bathroom.”

Patrick nods as he straightens up. His mom kisses he side of his head as he leaves, and that’s the end of that.

 

 

After a little while, a pattern emerged. The evenings became a perilous time for Patrick’s lunch, which had begun to consist of things he usually hated like barbecue sauce and sweet potato fries. In fact, Patrick had been eating a lot of junk recently, which he gathered probably wasn’t helping with his stomach ailment, but the cravings were just so strong that Patrick would make the guilty drive up to the mall at lunchtime and feel ashamed as he picked out his food. He usually gobbled it down in his car afterwards, hating to linger in public places, especially as the paparazzi could spring upon him at any moment, formulating headlines about his appearance slipping or trouble in his marriage which some people _actually believed_ had anything to do with his eating habits.

Well, actually, Patrick was gaining weight, rather quickly, too, despite the daily vomiting. Pete had noticed, and Patrick knew he’d noticed because the when they had sex Pete held onto the love handles he’d acquired, never explicitly mentioning it but broadcasting to the whole world that he fucking loved chubby Patrick, and perhaps more importantly that he loved fucking chubby Patrick. The weight gain was mainly around his hips, thighs and stomach, and, Patrick assumed, a direct result of too many sweet potato fries dipped in barbecue sauce.

The worst bit to Patrick was that he didn’t let his kids eat junk food. He didn’t want them trashing their bodies, and he tried his best to have them eat healthily, but he knew that they were teenagers, and that they ate more junk food than he cared to think about when they were out with their friends. He discovered this one Friday afternoon. Really, Patrick should have been more careful, should have thought about his actions before completing them.

As Patrick waited in the line for his food, shifting his weight from one hip to another periodically, he heard a rather familiar voice.

“Patrick?”

Oh, shit.

“Bronx?” Patrick turned around slowly to see Bronx and his two best friends stood to his right.

“Please tell me you’re doing this for someone else, or you’re the biggest hypocrite ever.”

Patrick groaned. He couldn’t lie to Bronx, not now. Swimming in shame, he says, “No.”

“Wow, Louie is gonna explode when I tell her about this,” Bronx laughs.

“Don’t tell her, please,” Patrick begs. “I just- I’m sorry, please don’t tell her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re here too and if you tell Louie you saw me here then I’ll tell your father that you disobeyed me. You know he won’t be happy.”

“Please, Dad buys us junk food all the time when you’re not here. Try again,” Bronx smirks.

“Um...” Patrick feels defeated. “I’m not even defending myself anymore. I’m just admitting to you that I get cravings and I’m too weak to say no to myself. Like, seriously, B, sweet potato fries and barbecue sauce has never tasted so fucking good.”

“You hate both of those things!” Bronx scoffs.

“Not anymore.” Patrick sighs. “Please, please, please, don’t tell anyone about this!”

“Okay, seeing as you’re so desperate, I won’t tell.”

 

 

That evening, Bronx discovers Patrick hunched over the toilet bowl when he goes in search of a missing pair of glasses, and he can’t help but feel a little smug. “Karma’s a bitch, Patrick,” he laughs cruelly. Patrick would flip him off if he had any energy left. “You need anything?” Bronx asks, a little warmth seeping back into his heart.

“Just get your dad’s ass in here and make him rub my fucking back, B.”

“Okay, but can I tell Louie now?”

“No!”

“Really? It’s almost a necessity! You’re sure I-“ he cuts off when Patrick heaves up those fries he enjoyed so much. “Oh, uh... Crap. Are you okay?”

“Please leave so I can be sick in peace.”

“You still want me to fetch Dad?” Another heave is the only answer Bronx gets. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

 

“Marie, I’m so pregnant, I don’t know how it’s taken me so long!” Patrick lets out a shaky laugh. “I mean, seriously, I’m gaining weight, I’m crying all the time, I’m getting sick like clockwork every fucking evening, and - did you know I peed three times in two hours at Andy’s last week?”

“Yeah, that sounds like pregnancy. You probably don’t even need those,” Marie says, cocking her head at the CVS bag on the kitchen island they’re sitting at. She’s still warming up from her journey to the Stump-Wentz house; it’s cold outside and the car wasn’t warming up very quickly.

“I feel so stupid, how could it take me that long? I must be, like, a whole month gone!”

“You’re forgetting one symptom, my friend.”

“What’s that? Obliviousness?”

“Nope.” Marie grins. “Baby brain.”

—

The moment of clarity, in which Patrick gets his answer, is emotional to say the least. He’s terrified, but, first and foremost, he’s happy. He’s really fucking happy. He’s sat on his bathroom floor, alone in his house at midday, and this is so different to the last two times he’d done this, but he’s just so happy. When he found out he was pregnant with Louie, Pete had been there, had turned over the test, glanced at the little pamphlet that came with it, and nodded, tears in his eyes as he looked up. There had been no words. It was beautiful.

There were no words now, either. Just quiet, and the sound of Patrick’s tears. They’re happy tears, but they’re also scared tears. He’s scared because he knows he’s got a lot to overcome, and the first step will come very soon. A harmony test will tell him the baby’s sex, among many other more important health-related things, and he can bring his mom, but it’s still going to be scary, going back to the place where he felt so unsafe, even with his daughter in his arms. It’s scary, but it’s a good place to start.

—

Patrick leafs through the pages of his birth plan draft with one hand, a piece of chocolate cake in the other. He feels weird doing this without Pete, but last time he’d been pressured into a hospital delivery that he didn’t honestly want, and the best way to avoid that happening again was to put this past his doctor an get some reliable back up before taking on Pete’s opinions.

A home birth, a private midwife, no pain relief and a blissful hour of skin to skin with his beautiful baby starting the second she’s out (it’s a she, and Patrick feels ultimately relieved) and ending only when the midwife will inevitably tell him that he probably needs stitches and - hey! Dad needs some bonding time, too! Louie was wrapped up in towels immediately after her birth, so even though Patrick got to hold her, he couldn’t put his hand on her back or play with her toes. The diamorphine he’d had was too much and made him woozy, and he couldn’t fully appreciate her cute button nose in all its beauty.

Joey’s birth was more complicated to say the least. After the uncomfortable beginning of the labour in Joe’s kitchen, and the stressful car journey to the hospital, he gave birth on his hands and knees, meaning his arms were shaking as they reached for Joey and pulled her into his chest. The midwife passed her straight to Pete after a minute or so, cord and all, waiting for the placenta to deliver and deciphering exactly how many stitches he would need. Trisha had looked on with tears in her eyes, offering up ice chips and kissing Patrick’s forehead.

The doctors dosed him up on sleeping pills when it was time for Joey to go to the nursery, and it pains Patrick to know that he barely remembers much of his labour with Joey, or the first few days immediately after her birth. It hurts to think about the post-natal depression that swooped in and made his life grey, even amidst the pale pink haze of a newborn baby girl. It hurts to think about the way he used to panic about taking Joey in for her check ups, the crushing weight of anxiety in his chest, because those maternity unit walls still scare the crap out of him. He couldn’t go visit his sister and his nephew when they asked because it was all too much.

Patrick would rather give birth on stage in front of a Fall Out Boy crowd than labour for five minutes in another stuffy hospital room.

It’s a wonder he’s doing so well this time around, actually. He talks to his mom almost every day on the phone, and if he doesn’t then he meets up with Marie for (decaf) coffee. When Pete knows, the belly touching will start, and personal space will once again become a thing of the past.

When Pete knows, he’ll have to remember exactly how many weeks and days he is for all the radio interviews, he’ll have to perfect his tummy rub for the cameras, and he’ll have to pretend to be happy all the time, because it’s a sin not to be when you’re expecting - it’s bad for the baby! When Pete knows everything will become harder, and Patrick likes having a secret almost completely to himself, likes being the only one that knows all the ins and outs. When Pete knows, the world will know, and he doesn’t like that idea just yet.

But Patrick knows that when Pete knows he’ll have a pair of warm arms to fold himself and his bump into at the end of a long hard day of being pregnant.

Wow. Pregnant. Again.

That’s another list of baby names, another wardrobe full of pastels, another few months colicky screams, another first word, another toddler to toilet train, another legendary public tantrum, another breakthrough moment, another first day of school. He’s done it twice before, but he can’t believe he’s about to do it again.

It’s like standing on one side of a mountain you’ve already crossed, this time with three occasionally sulky teenagers and an idiot husband in tow. It’ll be so difficult, it’ll be an immense challenge, but it’ll be a joy, through and through.

 


End file.
